


So Full A Voice

by AndrogynousTablature



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Fever Dreams, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndrogynousTablature/pseuds/AndrogynousTablature
Summary: Josh is dreaming. Nobody could dream this. What is the substance dreams are made of, and why do they change when you poke it. Can they be dreams? Nobody could dream this.





	1. Tneuxt

**Author's Note:**

> But the saying is true

The doorway has drawstrings and Josh thinks they look uneven. He’s not usually that person, and he knows the door will change shape if he does it. Maybe he won’t fit through it anymore, but _they’re uneven_ and what an itch it raises. What time is it now? He won’t look at his wristwatch because it’s been going backwards since he got here, maybe even before that. His pocketwatch was working until a few hours ago, but he’s not even sure in what shape the hours have drifted by, or if they’re still sprinting. He can’t keep up. He only knows that his heart grew very cold and his pocketwatch melted into his chest, tattooing itself onto the tissue of his lungs.

 

And time may be a flat circle but josh can see a way through the door and in the black there’s a track circling a badly-kept football field. It doesn’t look very flat at all. Josh has an inkling he might have to repave it. But the drawstrings.

 

Josh is tiny. Perhaps. Scale is hard to determine, especially when things are so far away, and when the time gracing his chest doesn’t beat a regular chronology of life. Instead it flares up like snoring now, and Josh wishes wishes wishes he could wake up. He dreams dreams dreams he could sleep. What time is it now? No use checking, it’s the same time it’s always been, and he’s never going to wake up.


	2. Listerine

The hallway is dark enough to slur speech, but the window at the far end casts bright white light in a sharp bubble around it. Not a window... So bright it undulates, pulsing violently until it comes up against boxy shadows drawn with solid perimeters. No gradation. The doors that line the walls are left in half-light, the ones closest to him barely superimposed rectangles on the brown darkness, the ones further along lit from the side like crying eyes in the gloam.

 

Josh knows in his marrow that it’s a fluorescent heart, beating in the window, that casts the light, but it’s too bright to look at without squinting. He feels his pocketwatch sync to its silent pulsing like a magnetic bassline and takes a step towards it. If it is a heart, it’s swimming in something. He takes another step.

 

Josh feels like everything is leaning to the left, like the further forward he steps, the more the room rotates, and gravity becomes a right angle to his left side. Josh imagines his brain rotating clockwise to counter the gravity, suspended in cerebral fluid, pulling his brain stem towards his left ear. He imagines the fluid looks like antifreeze.

 

Maybe the heart is swimming in antifreeze. Or Listerine, he decides. You can’t stop a hollow rot but you can drown the smell in septic glow. And glow it does. Josh steps again and feels his joints creak with the effort of fighting gravity. The doors are creaking, too, their hinges loosening and heavy handles tempting them to swing open, swing left, swing downward…

 

Josh squints and lifts a leg. With a sour ringing, like a reversed cymbal, the door behind, to the right, above Josh falls from its frame and scuttles down the hallway, away from the fluorescent light. Leg still in the air, Josh twists to watch it, arching his back, joints popping and neck straining….

 

And there They are. Watching from the dark. Watching him watch. Were They there the whole time? Have They always been there? Was it Their breath? Of course it was. Josh saw the condensation on the doors and he didn’t realize. He didn’t _realize._ They were sweating their poisons into the air only to breathe them back in and Josh should have known why his brainstem tugged him so to the side. Through the frame that lost its door Josh can see people lifting their masks in a Mexican wave motion, one after the other. Slowly, so he can’t see their faces. Fast, so he can’t see their masks. Beads of sweat roll into his mouth. Not sweat.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a collection of situations that occur to me. Maybe once I've written more of them, I'll go back and rewrite the whole thing to have a plot, but for now, here you go. Tags will be updated as the work is. It probably won't be chronological? Bear with me, loves.


End file.
